Richard Knaak - The Demon Soul

“He watches you, too,” the satyr commented quietly, as if passing a secret to a trusted comrade.

“ ‘He’? You mean—”

“All are under his wise gaze, even from so far away.” A tapering finger thrust at the sorcerer. “But some are observed more than others…in the hopes that they may be groomed for further greatness.”

Peroth’arn was speechless. Sargeras had marked him so? He quickly downed another huge gulp of wine, his eyes wide and calculating. How the others would have envied him.

“To his enemies, Sargeras is death incarnate, but to those who serve him well, he is benevolence unbridled.” Xavius guided the flask to Peroth’arn’s lips again. “He took me from beyond. He drew me back and granted me not only life again, but a special place at his side.”

Stretching to his full length, the satyr displayed his form for Peroth’arn. Seeing it now as a precious gift of the great god, the night elf admired it. In truth, Xavius was now much more than he had been in his previous life. His features were broader, more imposing. Xavius looked stronger, more agile despite the hooves. It was also evident that he had an even greater mastery of the arts. Peroth’arn could sense the power radiating from his former master and suddenly felt pangs of jealousy. This was power such as he, too, deserved.

Perhaps the wine had made Peroth’arn not so cautious in guarding his emotions, for suddenly Xavius pulled away from him as if struck. The satyr nearly melted back into the shadows. Peroth’arn clutched the flask tightly, fearing that he had offended one blessed by the god.

But as quickly as he had retreated, Xavius returned to him. The satyr loomed over the seated night elf, staring deep into Peroth’arn’s eyes. The sorcerer could not look away.

“No…” whispered Xavius half to himself. “It is too soon…but…he said that I must find those worthy…perhaps I could…yes…but to take on such a mantle, one would need the strength and resolve…dare I hope that you have such resolve, friend Peroth’arn?”

Leaping from the bed, Peroth’arn gasped, “I have whatever strength and resolve you need! I would do anything to be more worthy of my queen and Sargeras! Grant me the chance to be one of the worthy, I beg you!”

“It is a fearsome path you would take, dear Peroth’arn…but you would rise above the other Highborne! You would be under my guidance! All who beheld you would know you for one blessed by the lord of the Legion! Your power would grow tenfold and more! You would be the envy of all others, the first to join me!”

“Yes!” roared the night elf. “I will do whatever I must, Lord Xavius! Do not forsake me! I am worthy, I swear! Grant me this gift!”

The horned figure grinned, a sight that now filled his companion not with anxiousness, but rather with hope. “Yes, my dear Peroth’arn…I believe you. I believe that you are indeed worthy to take on the aspect of one of his most trusted, just as I have.”

“I am.”

“Your world will never be the same…it will be far better.”

Peroth’arn set the flask on the bed, then went down on one knee. “If I can be accepted here and now, I ask that it be so. Please say it is possible!”

The grin grew wider. “Oh, it can be done now.”

“Then I plead with you, Xavius—make me as you are! Give me the blessing of the god so that I may be a more perfect servant! I am worthy!”

“As you wish.” Taking a step back, Xavius seemed to grow. He filled Peroth’arn’s view completely. The ruby streaks in the satyr’s eyes flared wildly.

“It may cause you some pain at first,” he murmured to his convert, “but you will have no choice other than to endure it.”

Xavius raised his clawed hands high…

But as the spell struck him, Peroth’arn shrieked. He felt as if his body were being stripped to the bone bit by bit. The agony was like none he could have ever imagined. Tears filled his eyes and, unable to articulate words, he pleaded by moans for the pain to end. This was not what he wanted.

“No,” responded the satyr, ignoring his pleas. “We must finish now.”

And the screams rose to new, horrific levels. That which had once been Peroth’arn would hardly have been recognizable to his fellow Highborne. His body constantly mutated, pushed slowly and deliberately by Xavius’s power to what he desired. The screams became sobs, but even they did not disturb the satyr’s dark work, no matter how loud they, too, eventually became.

“Yes…” Xavius said with a gleam in his unholy orbs. “Unleash the pain. Unleash the fury. No one beyond this chamber will hear. You may scream as much as you like…just as I did.” His grin grew savage, animalistic. “It is little enough to suffer for the glory of Sargeras…”

The night elves had thought that the demons would pause somewhere along the way. They had expected that when they returned to Suramar they would at least be able to regroup and hold the enemy. And they had been certain that, if all else failed, Black Rook Hold would become their sanctuary.

They were wrong on all counts. Rhonin and Krasus understood why before Lord Ravencrest or any of the other night elves did. They had seen foremost the work of Archimonde, the sinister giant who, for a very good reason, commanded the Legion with the foul blessing of his master.

“He will give us no respite,” the dragon mage said, putting to voice what both had long thought. He absently touched his chest where he had adhered the scale, recalling Archimonde’s unholy relentlessness.

“He’ll run the demons into the ground before he lets that happen,” Rhonin agreed. “But we’ll all collapse long before they ever do.”

The night elves tried in vain to stop the rout at Suramar, if only so that the Hold could be readied for their entrance. It was hardly large enough to contain the population of the area, much less the huge force Ravencrest had gathered, but the noble had hoped that securing it would steel the hearts of his followers again. That, however, was not to be. There was not even time to enter the edifice. The soldiers held long enough for the civilians to flee behind them, but that was it. There was no chance to make Black Rook Hold ready and, to his credit, Ravencrest did not seek shelter there while the Burning Legion crushed all else.

“Never would I have thought the Hold so useless!” he snarled at Illidan. “But our host is too great despite our losses and if we sit here, the demons will chop away at those left outside, then starve those within.”

“Surely we can survive a siege!” Malfurion’s twin insisted.

“Against others, aye, but these will not tire and leave! They will destroy all around us, then wait for the inevitable!” The bearded night elf shook his head. “I will not let our end be so ignoble!”

After less than a day, they abandoned Suramar to the enemy, aware that nothing would be left to rebuild should the Burning Legion eventually be defeated. Wherever the demons marched, nothing remained but ruin. Even before the last glimpse of the city dwindled in the distance, the defenders could see the massive trees toppling, the walls collapsing under the relentless onslaught.

But even though so much of the Burning Legion had to be taking part in Suramar’s demise, those stalking the army continued after as if undrained of even a single warrior. So far there had been only one slim benefit to the lengthy retreat and that being the fading airborne threats. The Eredar still cast what spells they could to harass the night elves, but their demanding efforts had clearly exhausted them. The Infernals’ attacks had also lessened, at least from above. However, they still barreled ahead of the other demons, striking the defenders’ lines whenever the opportunity arose.